on the railings echoing the spires of an old church on the other side of the river, which itself reflects in miniature the Gherkin. The towering blocks of the
City’s Square Mile dwarf old rooftops and chimneys beneath. Layers of London history. The masts of a galleon that has moored a little way downriver are like a marvellous apparition from the
past. I feel relaxed and at peace. I walk, rounding bends and taking short cuts between new buildings, following the river walk beneath its cranes and round its creeks and marinas.
At Paynes Wharf, I stand and admire the majestic arches of the old shipbuilders’ palace, which frame and contain the sleek skyscrapers on the other side of the river on Canary Wharf. I
find the image interesting, the bigger contained within the smaller. Here I am, like the arches, small yet able to contain all this within my vision.
Theodora Gentleman, counsellor to the whole of south-east England.
A woman in mid-life, still able to summon a lover all the way from the States. Daddy’s ‘gift from god’, caring for him when no one else in my family is prepared to.
By the time I get home my face tingles with the cold morning air, and as I open the front door, I’m greeted by a scent that takes me straight back to Daddy’s
restaurant. The waft of spices, cumin, coriander, paprika.
I stand in the hallway, for once clear of shoes, which Mona has organised onto shelves. Clear of junk mail, and of Leo’s discarded clothes that are usually draped over the banisters and
across the floor. I remember how when a house is fresh and aired it also feels calmer, and I breathe in the tantalising North African aroma and a warmer, cosier scent of fresh yeast coming from the
kitchen. I move down my hallway towards the end, push open the door.
Mona’s squatting on the kitchen floor, a floured board in front of her, kneading dough. I stare at her. It’s a vision of perfect domesticity and I’m overcome by a sense of
appreciation and goodwill – of being looked after. As if my mother had risen from the grave. Not that she had made a loaf of bread in her life, certainly she’d never squatted on the
floor like this to bake. But seeing Mona there, lit up by a ray of sun sliding in from the window, gives me a feeling of contentment I haven’t experienced for a long time. The scene is like a
Dutch painting, a glimpse through the door of a quiet private moment of feminine labour.
‘It smells fabulous in here,’ I say.
I move into the kitchen, aware that I’m not needed, that Mona is happy here on her own. A fleeting sense that I’m in the way in my own home passes through my mind and away again.
Mona glances at me and smiles before looking back down as if embarrassed.
‘I’ve cooked lunch for you all. Charles and Leo and you. A national dish – I haven’t made for a long time. This is our special bread. And I’m making something
piquant. Leo likes spicy food.’
‘That’s lovely, thank you, Mona.’ Does she think I don’t know that Leo likes spicy food? ‘I look forward to it,’ I say, taking off my scarf.
‘Your hair, it looks nice,’ she says.
‘Thank you. I’ve been to the hairdresser’s.’
‘Very good, very fine,’ she says. ‘In my country, we don’t have this style, we find it very beautiful, like something precious.’ She smiles, her fingers dancing in
a rippling motion around her head.
‘What, curly hair?’
‘Yes, like you. And people try to make your colour. With henna. But it’s difficult, with our hair.’ She pulls a face.
I smile at her. ‘Don’t be silly, Mona, your hair is beautiful too. Oh, and I bought cupcakes. So we are both thinking of our stomachs today!’ I pat mine, and she laughs.
‘I got them from Borough Market.’
‘Another market?’
‘Yes, much nicer. Up the river.’
‘I’d like to see.’
‘I’ll show you.’
We’re interrupted by the doorbell. Anita and Simon are on the steps.
‘We thought we’d come and see
City’s Square Mile dwarf old rooftops and chimneys beneath. Layers of London history. The masts of a galleon that has moored a little way downriver are like a marvellous apparition from the
past. I feel relaxed and at peace. I walk, rounding bends and taking short cuts between new buildings, following the river walk beneath its cranes and round its creeks and marinas.
At Paynes Wharf, I stand and admire the majestic arches of the old shipbuilders’ palace, which frame and contain the sleek skyscrapers on the other side of the river on Canary Wharf. I
find the image interesting, the bigger contained within the smaller. Here I am, like the arches, small yet able to contain all this within my vision.
Theodora Gentleman, counsellor to the whole of south-east England.
A woman in mid-life, still able to summon a lover all the way from the States. Daddy’s ‘gift from god’, caring for him when no one else in my family is prepared to.
By the time I get home my face tingles with the cold morning air, and as I open the front door, I’m greeted by a scent that takes me straight back to Daddy’s
restaurant. The waft of spices, cumin, coriander, paprika.
I stand in the hallway, for once clear of shoes, which Mona has organised onto shelves. Clear of junk mail, and of Leo’s discarded clothes that are usually draped over the banisters and
across the floor. I remember how when a house is fresh and aired it also feels calmer, and I breathe in the tantalising North African aroma and a warmer, cosier scent of fresh yeast coming from the
kitchen. I move down my hallway towards the end, push open the door.
Mona’s squatting on the kitchen floor, a floured board in front of her, kneading dough. I stare at her. It’s a vision of perfect domesticity and I’m overcome by a sense of
appreciation and goodwill – of being looked after. As if my mother had risen from the grave. Not that she had made a loaf of bread in her life, certainly she’d never squatted on the
floor like this to bake. But seeing Mona there, lit up by a ray of sun sliding in from the window, gives me a feeling of contentment I haven’t experienced for a long time. The scene is like a
Dutch painting, a glimpse through the door of a quiet private moment of feminine labour.
‘It smells fabulous in here,’ I say.
I move into the kitchen, aware that I’m not needed, that Mona is happy here on her own. A fleeting sense that I’m in the way in my own home passes through my mind and away again.
Mona glances at me and smiles before looking back down as if embarrassed.
‘I’ve cooked lunch for you all. Charles and Leo and you. A national dish – I haven’t made for a long time. This is our special bread. And I’m making something
piquant. Leo likes spicy food.’
‘That’s lovely, thank you, Mona.’ Does she think I don’t know that Leo likes spicy food? ‘I look forward to it,’ I say, taking off my scarf.
‘Your hair, it looks nice,’ she says.
‘Thank you. I’ve been to the hairdresser’s.’
‘Very good, very fine,’ she says. ‘In my country, we don’t have this style, we find it very beautiful, like something precious.’ She smiles, her fingers dancing in
a rippling motion around her head.
‘What, curly hair?’
‘Yes, like you. And people try to make your colour. With henna. But it’s difficult, with our hair.’ She pulls a face.
I smile at her. ‘Don’t be silly, Mona, your hair is beautiful too. Oh, and I bought cupcakes. So we are both thinking of our stomachs today!’ I pat mine, and she laughs.
‘I got them from Borough Market.’
‘Another market?’
‘Yes, much nicer. Up the river.’
‘I’d like to see.’
‘I’ll show you.’
We’re interrupted by the doorbell. Anita and Simon are on the steps.
‘We thought we’d come and see
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